


Terms of Endearment

by Starlingsings



Category: Lennon/McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingsings/pseuds/Starlingsings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another day, another fight... and then making up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terms of Endearment

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written with the lovely and talented Rhoste - Thank you, thank you, thank you!

"I know you're tired, John! I'm fucking tired, too!" Paul spits out as he throws open the door of his flat - they almost always come back to his flat, rarely John's - "But if we'd have just done one more take, it wouldn't be hanging over our heads all night." He knows he's not going to be able to sleep for thinking about it, _brooding_ over it. _Just **one** more!_

"Christ, Paul, get over it," John answers, fatigue clear in his voice. They've had this argument a dozen times, at least. He snorts. Probably a dozen times today. Following Paul into the flat, he closes and locks the door behind them, pausing to light a cigarette, offering the pack to Paul. "It's fucking fine the way it is; one more take wouldn't have changed a damn thing and you know it as well as I do." He squints at Paul through the smoke. "You have to learn to let go, Paulie. It's rock and roll. It's not meant to be perfect."

Taking the offered cig, Paul gives John a baleful glare as he leans in to let him light it. "Let it go?" the exasperation is clear in his voice, "John, if we let good enough be good enough, we'll never be any better than anybody else!" He stares at the glowing end of his cigarette for a second before adding, "I won't be mediocre, Johnny."

"We're the fucking Beatles, Paul." John moves past Paul into the kitchen, filling the kettle at the tap and setting it to boil. "And as much as the whole circus is shite, the music's never let us down." He leans back against the counter, arms folded, watching Paul. "It's eight bloody bars, and once you drove George and Ringo away what did you really think we'd accomplish?"

"And you don't think that carries a certain responsibility to quality?" Paul shakes his head, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. He turns away, pacing back and forth. What did he think they'd accomplish? Same thing they always accomplish when it's the two of them - ‘Magic.’

"Responsibility?" John snorts, turning to pull a couple of white china mugs down from the cupboard. "My only responsibility is to myself, mate, and if you were smart you'd be the same. I don't owe anybody a fucking thing. I've done my time, trying to put on the best shows we could. And what do we get for it? Bloody screaming girls can't hear what we're singing, and a line of willing mouths and pussies out the door." He points his cigarette at Paul. "That's the point, mate. They don't care if we're not perfect, why the fuck should we? Messy, that's the way it's supposed to be. Like great fucking." The kettle boils and he pours some water into the teapot, warming the pot before making the tea proper.

Paul can't help but turn and watch as John puts their tea together. He's always had a certain fascination with those artistic hands. "There's a difference between messy and a fucking mess, Johnny," Paul points out, ire starting to give way to fatigue and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "I care because I care.'

"It's not a fucking mess," John says for, he's quite sure, the ten millionth time since they started arguing this afternoon. He adds milk and sugar, stirring the tea carefully then handing one of the cups to Paul. "Here, drink up." He smiles and wraps an arm around Paul, kissing his cheek. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't care, Paulie. Makes you a fucking irritating wanker some days, mind you."

"Yeah well," Paul can't quite keep the smile entirely away when John ribs him like that and he gives back in kind, "Least I'm not a fucking lazy wanker." He leans against his lover, holding out his cigarette to give him the last drag before stubbing it out.

"Long as we're fucking, son, long as we're fucking," smirks John, loving the way Paul leans against him. They've always had this, through all the craziness and the fighting. Time alone, just the two of them, no wives or girlfriends or bandmates or fucking crazy fans, time for them just to be.

Looking over his shoulder, Paul bestows John with one of those sweet little-boy grins of his. At the same time, he reaches down with his free hand, palming the bulge in the front of John's trousers. "Count on it, love," the smile deepens as he slowly squeezes, "Bloody well count on it."

"Why, Mr. McCartney! I'm shocked, shocked I tell you! What must you think of me, being so forward!" John puts on a high-pitched voice, eyes twinkling behind his specs. He can't stop the way his hips push forward against Paul's hand, though, nor the way his prick hardens at the squeeze.

Stroking up and down through the fabric, it's Paul's turn to smirk. "I think you're the best fuck around's what I think," he retorts, still not turning around, but kissing John over his shoulder.

"Well, can't argue with that." John leans into the kiss, his arms wrapping around Paul, hand snaking down to pinch Paul's perfectly round ass. "You're a damn good fuck, yourself, Paulie. All sexy-like, with that mouth of yours."

"Yeah, yeah," Paul chuckles, setting his mug down so he's got both hands free and turning so they're standing face to face, chest to chest, hip to hip. "I know you, Johnny," dark eyes glimmer with his smile, "You just want me to suck you."

"Will you, Paul?" John asks. He always asks, always makes sure. Paul's never turned him down, not when they're not actually fighting and even then he thinks about it before he buggers off, but John's never been good at assuming people will be there for him when he needs them. So he always asks. Just in case.

For a long minute, Paul just stands there, looking into John's eyes, hands rubbing up and down the outsides of his arms. "I will, John," he finally says, just as simple as that, "You know I will."

And John knows Paul means more than a blowjob, knows Paul gets him the way no one has since Stu died. He nods, once, unable to voice the gratitude, but sure Paul knows that too. "Right then," he says, clearing his throat. "On your knees, Macca. Let's be getting on with it."

Paul's eyes narrow but he doesn't hesitate to do what John's asked of him - what he himself offered. Without a word, he sinks to his knees, hands running up John's strong thighs and over his slim hips. Looking up, Paul watches John's face as he slowly begins to unfasten his trousers. His tongue, all unknowing, licks out over his bottom lip in anticipation.

_Oh, that bottom lip. Gorgeous._ John's hand reaches out, almost of its own accord, thumb swiping over the fullness of that lip, before he buries his hand deep in dark brown hair. "You're beautiful, Paul," he says quietly.

Of all the people who've told him that over the years, John's one of the few who it's actually _mattered_ to Paul. "So're you, love," he returns, the truth of it shining in those tipped-down eyes. He thinks John's maybe one of the most beautiful people he's ever known.

John smiles down at Paul, hand stroking gently through his hair. He doesn't believe Paul, knows what he sees when he looks in the mirror, but if Paul thinks he's beautiful, well, he's willing to let him. "C'mon, then," he says fondly, all trace of the attempts at humour gone from his voice. "Let's put that mouth to work doing what it does best."

It's no secret what John thinks of his own looks, but Paul's never going to stop telling him what _he_ thinks. Leaning close, he tips a little smile up. "Almost as good at it as you are," he ribs, not giving John a chance to smart back before he's licking over the head of that gorgeous prick.

"Oh, fuck," John sighs quietly, head tilted to watch Paul at work. "Fucking hell, that's good." His hand continues to stroke through Paul's thick hair, his other hand resting on the man's shoulder. He wants to make a joke, something about this being Paul's real talent, never mind the music, but he's not sure that won't bring him right back around to the animosity from the afternoon, so he lets it go in favour of gentle sighs and the occasional muttered obscenity.

Paul sets to with a will. It's amazing to him that, in such a subservient position, he always feels so powerful. _Greatest work_ , he thinks to himself when he hears those sighs, tongue swirling around the crown of John's prick before he sucks it back down again, _and nobody'll ever hear it but me._ That sends a spear of fierce possessiveness through him and he sucks harder - _Nobody but me, Johnny._

"That's it Paulie, absolutely perfect," John croons over him, the sight of Paul on his knees never failing to bring out John's tender side. They share a lot of their lives with other people, but this is just them, has been since they started it years ago. Nobody else knows, or needs to, and John would deny it fiercely if asked, but he loves Paul, and it's moments like this that bring that fact home to him.

That praise is what Paul's needed to hear and once he does, he lets it warm him from the inside. Finally, he relaxes into the act of sucking John, giving over that hard-held control. It's as much of an apology as John will ever get for Paul's behavior throughout the day, but it's also the most sincere one Paul will ever make to him.

When Paul relaxes fully into it, John can feel himself letting go, too. Really, there's nothing in the world like Paul's mouth, no bird has ever blown him like this. "You're a talented fucker, I'll give you that," he smiles. He breath hitches. "Jesus, Paulie, that. Whatever you just did, do it again."

A hint of a smile crinkles at the corners of Paul's eyes and he happily obliges John, repeating the flick of his tongue that had been so particularly effective. His hands hang onto John's hips, not guiding now, simply encouraging.

"Fuck me," John groans, hips bucking at the sensation. "Soon, Paul. Gonna come soon."

And once he does, Paul will very happily fuck him! That's not what sends him to his redoubled efforts, though. No, that would be the way John sounds when he's desperately close like he is now.

"Coming, Paul, coming now," John manages to get the warning out before his climax overtakes him, fingers tightening in Paul's hair and digging into his shoulder.

Paul just swallows it down, humming softly as he does. Even the thought that he's going to have bruises from John's hand tomorrow doesn't bother him. He'd never say it, but he really does enjoy wearing his lover's marks...on occasion.

"So fucking good," John pants, fingers combing through Paul's hair. "Thank you, love."

Standing back up again, Paul slips his arms easily around John's waist and presses a gentle, almost chaste kiss to his mouth. "You're welcome, love." answered in kind, just that simple.

John wraps his arms around Paul. "Cocksucker," he murmurs, softly.

"Bastard," Paul rejoins, the tender smile evident in his voice.

"I'm a big damn bastard," John agrees, kissing Paul, gently, "but you're a world-class cocksucker." And if he threw that name at Paul earlier in the day in the midst of fighting, well, that doesn't make it any less true now in a different context.

Paul takes a step back but keeps his arms around John, pulling his lover with him as he backs towards his tiny bedroom. "Better believe it, Johnny," he murmurs between kisses. _You're the only one ..._

John goes happily enough, steering Paul towards the bed, one eye open through the kissing to make sure they reach there safely. Nimble fingers undo the buttons of Paul's shirt, stroking the skin that's revealed as he does. "My cocksucker," he murmurs.

Slipping his hands under the hem of John's shirt, Paul rubs over the skin at his waist, loving the smoothness of it. "Only you," Paul whispers back, voicing his unstated thought from just moments before, "Only you, Johnny."

The thought of Paul doing this with anyone else makes John crazy, brings all his insecurities to the fore. "Make sure it stays that way, Paul," he growls, stripping Paul's shirt off completely. "I'll fucking kill you otherwise."

Heat flares in Paul's gut at those words. He'd never admit it but he loves when John goes all possessive like that - as possessive as he _feels_ himself. "Yeah well, that works both ways, John," Paul shoots back, working on John's shirt now.

And that's really what John needed to hear, that Paul wants him as much as he wants Paul. He nods, once, then starts working on Paul's belt.

And just like that, Paul's jerking at John's clothes, his need suddenly hot and urgent. "Hurry," he growls, somewhere between plea and demand.

"Fuck yes," John agrees, just as fervent, hopping to pull off his shoes so he can get out of his jeans, hands then going back to Paul's clothes. "Come on, sweetheart, naked and on top of me," he encourages.

It's quicker to take care of his own trousers, but Paul lets John start pushing them down his hips before he moves to help. He just toes out of his shoes and trousers together, reaching for John as he practically falls onto the bed.

John falls with him, mouth finding Paul's, tongue pushing into his mouth. His hands can't get enough of Paul's skin and they roam freely, touching, stroking, caressing, teasing his lover the way he likes best.

It's like John's hands are everywhere and Paul sighs into their kisses, tongue stroking over John's. His own hands move restlessly, like they can't possibly ever get enough of his lover's skin. Soon, he rolls them so he's lying fully on top of John, prick pressing hot and insistent against his hip.

"Fuck, yes," John moans, body writhing under Paul's, legs spreading to accommodate his body. "C'mon, then, love. Fuck me."

Groaning at the way John opens up for him, Paul quickly sucks a finger into his mouth, wetting it thoroughly before reaching between them and rubbing it over John's hole. "Let me in, Johnny," he murmurs between kisses, pressing that finger slowly inside.

"Mm hmm," John hums, body shifting slightly as the feeling of being breached sends delicious tremors through his body. "Always, Paul. Always let you in."

"So beautiful to me," Paul whispers softly, his eyes avid on John's face as he slowly fucks first one then two fingers in and out of him.

John moans softly, feeling his body stretch to accommodate Paul's fingers. He shifts one leg slightly, bending it so he can rub a foot over Paul's thigh. His hands slide along Paul's back, feeling the way the muscles shift under the skin. So fucking sexy. "C'mon, Paulie. Fuck me." A beat and then he adds, "Please."

_Christ!_ There's no way Paul can say no to that; can't ever _really_ say no to John when it comes right down to it. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning up to kiss John as he pulls his fingers out, "Yeah, love." And, spitting into his palm, Paul rubs it over his prick before pressing in hard against John's hole.

"Fuck!" The burn is intense, the first few moments of Paul pushing inside him more pain than anything else, but then his prick hits just the right spot and waves of pleasure wash over John. He slides a hand up Paul's back, right to the back of his head, holding him while John stretches up for a kiss. "So fucking good, love," he murmurs.

It's a kiss Paul gives readily, happily. He nuzzles soft kisses against John's mouth. "Feel amazing, Johnny," soft love-words as he slowly draws his hips back for that first real thrust in.

John arches and moans, fingers digging into Paul's shoulders. His legs wrap around Paul's hips. "That's it, Paul, that's exactly it," he encourages.

Reaching down with one hand, Paul rubs up the underside of John's thigh, urging it that little bit higher. "Feel good, love?" he whispers, letting the rhythm build naturally between them. Yet one more thing on which they've always been perfectly attuned.

"Perfect. Perfect Paulie. My perfect Paulie," John croons nonsensically, hips rolling up to meet Paul's thrusts, taking him in as deep as he can. "Gonna write a song about this. Call it A Hard Day's Fucking. It'll sell millions. Oh fuck, Paul, yes, please!" He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. But Paul's prick up his ass tends to do that to him, short-circuit all his inhibitions and it's just stream of bloody consciousness from there on.

As usual, Paul just lets him go, "Be our biggest hit," he huffs a breathless chuckle. He loves the way John's mind works, particularly the way it goes spinning out into the universe when Paul's fucking him. When he hears John's voice go all soft and pleading, Paul works to repeat exactly what he'd done to elicit that reaction in the first place, "Fucking love the way you you feel, Johnny."

"Good thing too." John picks up on Paul's words and runs with them. "You start not liking this and we're up the proverbial creek, son. Unh, Paul, that's, Jesus, mate. Nice job. Kiss me, Paulie. Show me you love me."

"'Course I love you, Johnny," Paul whispers, "Christ, love you like nobody else!" And then there are no more words because Paul's kissing John, lost in his mouth, in his body, in this thing that lies between them, binding them to each other.

John knows it's true, knows Paul really loves him, just like he loves Paul. But he needs to hear it, needs to know, every time. Reassured, he sinks into the kiss, body wrapped around Paul's, holding him as close as possible.

Recognizing his lover's need for closeness, needing it himself, Paul lowers his upper body, chest pressed against John's. Now, braced up only on his elbows, the angle of his prick changes again and he groans, mouth becoming more demanding.

Tongue tangling with Paul's, groans echoing those of his lover, John wraps tighter around him. There are tremors running up his spine, the new angle meaning the head of Paul's cock rubs over his prostate with every thrust.

The way they're tangled together in their lovemaking is amazingly intimate and Paul's chest tightens with emotion. It's true - he loves John like he's never loved anyone...will never love anyone again, he suspects.

Breaking the kiss, John moves his mouth so it's right against Paul's ear. "I love you, Paul." he whispers, and if he's only able to say that when they're like this, well, at least he knows Paul's hearing him.

'I know' Paul mouths against John's temple, hips slowing their thrusts. Even though his body's screaming for release, he just can't hurry this moment between them.

John nods, once, all that shows he's aware of Paul's acknowledgement. Intimacy like this, emotional nakedness, has never come easily to him, and he's never met anyone but Paul who is willing to take it for what it is, without demanding more. He's unutterably grateful for that.

He stays like that for a couple of minutes - body thrusting slowly in and out of John's, their faces pressed together, mouths at ears so that they don't have to look at one another, just listen. Of course, it's only so long before the demands of his body start to overwhelm him and Paul starts to pick up the tempo once again.

John moves with him, in sync, perfect harmony, the way they've always been, hard prick trapped between their bodies. The sound of Paul's breathing fills his ears, the smell of him fills his nostrils, the feel of him all over John's body. His senses reel with it.

"Johnny!" Paul gasps, his breathing gone ragged with the desperate pumping of his hips, "Close, love..."

"Come on then, Paul. Come on," John encourages, hand sliding down to Paul's ass, pulling him in that little bit more.

The breath catches tight in Paul's chest to feel John's hands on him like that, then it's exploding out of him in a soft, reedy groan. His body jerks and then plunges deep, release shaking through him.

It's John's favourite bit, knowing that he can make Paul lose control like this. It's just so fucking sexy and it's not long before he follows Paul over, calling his name while his cock spurts into the minute space between their bodies.

"Oh John," Paul pants, nuzzling John's cheek, "Oh love." His hands can't get enough of John's skin, stroking down that beautiful expanse over and over. 

One hand buried in Paul's hair, the other stroking over his back, John nuzzles back, loving the way they feel like this, the closeness. "My Paul," he murmurs.

For just a second, Paul's throat closes up. "You know I am," he finally whispers, pressing his palm against John's chest, right over his heart, "You know I am, Johnny."

John nods. He does know. It's how this works, how it's always managed to work. Through the fighting and the insecurities, Paul's need for control and John's fear of abandonment, he's always known: Paul is his, and he is Paul's, and that's all that really matters.


End file.
